Grief
by PhoenixMageFire
Summary: Even if there's no war to fight, grief still takes it's course.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaiming Banner: If I owned ATLA, half the cast would have gone through serious counseling.

Grief

Zuko tugged his hood lower down over his eyes and slouched deeper into the bench. On the subway it was easy to pretend he had somewhere to go, and somewhere to return to. An announcement came on over the loud-speaker, but he didn't bother to translate it. The medication he was taking made his brain fuzzy around the edges, and even though he wasn't tired, he drifted between wakefulness and sleep.

The rocking of the train was soothing. It was bitter-sweet and it felt like being home again; when he opened his eyes it would be just another day after class going from Keio to Shibuya with friends. His mind drifted further down into sleep and Mother was taking him to the seaside on the bullet train. They must have gotten there already because she was trying to wake him up.

It wasn't Mother. A dark, foreign face loomed over him, made darker by the stark lighting of the subway. He wore a crinkled uniform and spoke down to him. Eventual, Zuko connected the noise the man was making with 'Get off my train, go sleep in a homeless shelter.' Muddled from pain-killers, three days unwashed, and dressed for the biting New England cold in sneakers and a hoodie, he must have looked more like a junkie than the son of a leader in the Japanese Parliament. But the conductor? guard? was standing over him with a heavy flashlight, and was clearly in a foul mood. The almost adult rolled to his feet and tried not to cause a scene, no matter how much he wanted to.

"But that's why he sent me here, for appearances." It was a bitter, unbecoming thought. Father had done what was necessary. He had done all he could while the legislature was still in session. Ozai had arranged for his son's medical care in one of the best hospitals in the world. "On the other side of the planet." Father had arranged for him to have the best suite in the Plaza hotel. "At Uncle's insistence." He had been given a generous allowance. "With out anyone to spend it with." Trudging up the cracked concrete steps from the metro to the surface, he let loose every curse in every language he knew.

He only spoke two languages, but he felt better for having those gaijin eyes watching him for something other than his dirty clothes or the bandages smothering half his face. It made him long for a cigarette. The laws here were strange, would he be allowed to light up on the street? There were fewer Caucasians here. By a stroke of badly needed luck, he had gotten off the subway in an Asian part of the city. There were paper lanterns in windows, and signs everywhere in a dazzling display of mismatched languages and characters. Biwa music filtered out from a doorway decorated with a multicolored display of dragons, some of them even motorized.

The stale smell of frying tofu and snow-peas wafted toward him, and Zuko remembered food. He'd not bothered to eat yesterday. He'd kill for some Okayu right now. But food was a memory here, not a promise. It was too late for any but the least appealing restaurants to be open. What time could it possibly be that in New York City, the only places to eat were dripping in spoiled grease? He still had a little bit of pride left and was not going to become part of the fast-food chain. He walked on. The shops turned into apartment blocks. He kept walking until the people stopped disappearing into them. Then he walked some more until the streets turned into garden paths. A hand lettered sign labeled the space he found a Community Garden in the Bronx borough. It was a strange mix of vegetable plots and meditation corners. It wasn't enough like home to be comfortable, but the calm, growing greenness of the place was comforting.

There were chrysanthemums. White chrysanthemums growing in a broken pot next to an old graffitied bench. Their petals shown in the low light of the street lamps; oranges, blues, and white with the painful familiarity of a funerary shrine. When had been the last prayer he made for Lu Ten? Or for his Aunt or Mother? Had he said one for Azula yet? Uncle would have, Father might even have at her funeral last month.

Zuko hadn't been at her funeral and could only guess. The doctors had spent that first week treating smoke inhalation, consulting optical specialists, setting half of the bones in his face and managing a dangerous swelling in his brain left by impact trauma. But if he knew anything about Ozai, he had been at the funeral presenting a good example of grieving fatherhood.

"Hey! I didn't know that anyone was out here!" The sudden voice was vulgar in the in early morning hours. Zuko turned on instinct towards the intruder and saw the last thing he expected in America. A Monk. A yellow clad, shaven headed Buddhist Monk. With really weird tattoos and a smile that was trying to take flight off of his face.

A/N: I apologize to anyone who has been to, or lives in New York. I haven't and so must make do with Wikipedia.


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaiming Banner: I do not claim ownership of ATLA. Or Buddhism. Or New York City. Or cell-phones if you want me to be thorough.

Grief

There was a moment where Zuko wanted to pinch himself, just to be certain that he was awake. Blinking underneath his bandages was sufficiently painful to assure him that, yes, there was a monk in front of him.

He hadn't slept much lately, was this kid for real? Was there a temple tucked away in this neighborhood? The obviously older teen hadn't spoken before the boy began again. "I am here to speak United Nations, you live here China Town?" The two of them were sitting in one of the largest, busiest, most violent cities on Earth and he wanted to play nice?

"But maybe you do not speak English?" The boy was still smiling. He started to speak again in what sounded like Chinese, and Zuko found he couldn't follow.

"English," the elder boy cried, trying to stave off more awkwardness. "I speak little." Just enough to get into trouble Uncle would always tell him. The stray thought sent a pang through him at his mentor's absence. The thought that Azula had been so much better with languages made a close but separate part of him ache.

"I am happy," the monk chirped. You definitely are. "Life is much better when we communicate. Where do you live?" When do you breathe? Zuko would blame the drugs, or lack of sleep, long before the loneliness that kept him from getting up and leaving.

"I...Nippon, Tokyo."

"Tokyo? Wow!" Weren't monks supposed to be calm and collected? This kid didn't seem to be removed very far from the world. "Are you with family? You must be walking to get over jet-lag. Traveling so much always makes jet-lag."

Was it so dark in this garden? Or was his hood actually hiding his bandages. There was no way that a kid who looked to be around fifteen would think Zuko was on vacation with half his face missing. The boy had managed to stop speaking for a moment and in the shadows was turned towards his nearly silent companion.

"No vacation. I, for hospital." He had to chose his words carefully. The structure of English was so different from Japanese. "Jacobi Medical Center has good reputation. With burns."

That smile that had stretched blue tattoos out of alignment settled lower on a young mouth in empathy.

"An accident?" How could it be anything else? But he nodded just the same. "Were others hurt?"

"Azula. Dead, my young sister." His throat tightened at the memory of her choking on her own blood. It was one of two solid recollections he had of that day. The other was of Azula insisting she needed to practice driving. When he got around to actual sleep, which vision of her would haunt his dreams?

"I pray for her. Are there words she would want?" He really hadn't meant to, but shallow laughter burst from him nonetheless.

"Azula did not believe. Only herself."

"Then I honor her."

The words were no sooner out of his mouth than a ringing came out of the yellow robes. Did this monk/not monk have a cellphone stashed away in there? He apologized and apologized again plucking a cell-phone laden with baubles and decorated with stickers out of an invisible pocket. The boy spoke into the mouth-piece in yet another language that Zuko couldn't quite make out. How many did he know?

"I am sorry. My guardian waits for me. Will you walk? I stay at the Hilton New York. It is not far."

In his head the elder pictured where the Hilton New York hotel was. It was some distance from his own, but it wouldn't be hard to catch another train or maybe even a taxi back to the Plaza when he was finally ready to sleep. Instead of humiliating himself again with his poor English, he stood and gestured for the monk to start walking. It truly was no great distance to the hotel, maybe ten minutes or so. But that was apparently more than enough time for 'Baldy' (as Zuko found himself calling the boy), to wax poetic about kite-flying. Kite-flying for fucks-sakes. Ooh, he really wanted a cigarette.

The awning of the hotel lobby came into view and not a moment to soon. For Zuko, or for the two elderly monks waiting for Baldy. Or the bodyguards that were waiting for him as well. Huh, did a lot of holy-men need guards? Though he did say something about the United Nations, didn't he?

"Teacher, will they..."he struggled to find the right word, "...blame me?" The response was immediate and comical. The orange-clad body twirled around, waving his arms. Even in the streetlight his embarrassed flush was obvious.

"I escape many times the guards!" He looked over his shoulder to check if they were discovered by the waiting party. "I tell them a lama need not fear. They do not believe."

"Nani?" The suited bodyguards hadn't quite heard that. "What say?" It was clearly something he hadn't meant to say.

"My name is Jetsun Jamphel Ngawang Lobsang Yeshe Aang." Baldy looked somewhat contrite. "To many, Aang. You may know me as 'Dalai Lama'."

"You joke." Zuko couldn't help feeling a little bit appalled. How was this the leader of Tibet? But it did tickle his memory. All the way through his death, the search for his new incarnation, and the investiture of his new self, the Uncle had been glued to the TV, the papers, the internet. He'd seen plenty of pictures while the Dalai Lama had always remained a wrinkled old man in Zuko's mind. Iroh was certainly more devout than any other member of their family, no matter how hard he'd tried to interest the younger generation. Maybe they had been too young? Eight and six were not good ages to introduce the very abstract concept of both reincarnation and rule in exile.

Would Iroh have recognized of the the world's better known faces? Or would he have stood on a grubby street gaping like a fool?

"Often, not about this." Lama Aang was smiling, but it was less effusive. "I was hoping, a little, that we could be friends."

"Oh." Such a simple statement of a wish that could be so complex. "I go home, soon." The old instinctive reaction to keep himself from disappointment reared up. But he was weak against the disappointment of others. He always had been and right now the only person that he could possibly disappoint in this city was sitting in front of him, crestfallen. "Before, we can make friends." For a terrible, horrifying moment, Zuko was sure Lama Aang would hug him.

A/N: Inspiration for 'Lama Aang' was taken shamelessly from the current Dalai Lama, His Holiness Tenzin Gyatso.


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaiming Banner: I do not claim ownership of ATLA. Or the Plaza hotel. Or the Sun.

Grief

Chapter 3

I have been remiss in my gratitude.

Thank you 69moans. Thank you Hl-ee-09. Thank you Fireun Feather. You help this feel less like a runaway one-shot.

When he finally got back to his hotel room, he was welcomed by the smell of nicotine and tar. His room at the Plaza turned out to not be smoking permitted, but he was a little worried to light up anywhere else. At the hotel, all he would have to do is pay a fine. Outside...he didn't want to get arrested, American prisons were supposed to be terrible. And he didn't want anyone to see him flinch when he lit up, or the way he had to bring the smoke down to the lighter. He couldn't handle fire that close to his face lately.

He rested his lighter on the bathroom counter to get a cigg ready. Once it was burning sufficiently well, he took a deep drag and held it as long as possible. The familiar sweet ache filled up his lungs and his memory. Lu Ten had smoked, and prompted by school friends an eight year old Zuko had stolen his first cigarette from his cousin. More than a decade later he still smoked the same brand, (cloves, imported) and left a pack at the cemetery every year for his spirit.

What was he going to leave for Azula?

His hand shook, and he dropped the smoke into the sink. It went out, so Zuko picked up the lighter, again, lit up as far away as he could manage, again. But didn't let the flame go out. He brought it closer, closer, and closer to his face, until his hand shook enough to drop the lighter into the sink as well.

He'd managed to get almost 3 cm closer today. If he kept this pace, he'd be able to light up without flinching at all by the time he went home. Uncle would be pleased, Father wouldn't notice. Funny, how Zuko had started smoking to be like his father and his uncle had given it up because it interfered with the taste of his tea. Zuko wasn't ready to give it up.

Finishing, he stubbed the butt into a coffee cup that was his impromptu ashtray and thought about ordering room-service. But between several days improper sleep and the chemical bouquet calming his nerves, Zuko fell asleep on the couch before he could make the call.

Some hours later, he was awoken by the hotel butler. A politely gruff man, Jee spoke Japanese with only a slight accent. He had been well trained in service, but not likely from a servant family. He was awfully forward; Uncle must have requested him specifically.

"Master Zuko. It is time for your breakfast." The man in question started awake. He discovered that he was still on the couch in the suite's first floor living room, his lower body threatening to slide off and the whole side of his face buried into the upholstery. In the dining room behind him, a full breakfast service, (possibly the same type he had ordered yesterday but not been able to eat) was laid out with mathematical precision. The scent of rice, miso, and tea helped him resolve to eat no matter what this morning.

He was going into surgery tomorrow after all, and he would need calories while he could get them. Banishing such thoughts, Zuko tried to get up from his vaguely embarrassing sleep position with some grace, and failed.

"Where there any messages for me yesterday, Jee?" He managed to ask once settled down to eat.

"Two calls, sir, from Master Iroh. He left a message asking you to call him back after each. You also had a letter addressed from a Miss Mai. I've left it next to the telephone in the master bedroom." Like any good butler, Jee seemed to manage with his tone of voice to imply that he was disappointed in his young charge for not replying to his family's last three attempts at contact.

As if on command, Zuko cringed. It wasn't that he didn't want to speak to Iroh, (he desperately wanted to hear the man's voice) he couldn't. He wasn't ... wasn't whole yet. When his face was more normal, when he knew if he could see out of his right eye, then he would have the fortitude to speak with his closest family. And Mai, he didn't know when he'd be able to face her, so to speak. They had met through Azula. He might have gone to a marriage broker by now if it hadn't been for his _dead_ little sister's play-dates.

He'd send them both emails today; after his jujutsu practice. For now, he took a pill from the bottle that had appeared beside his tea. He read the instructions, again, and took half the recommended dose. Again. He didn't enjoy pain, but the stuff muddled his brain. It was more difficult to translate all the English around him, let alone practice without harming himself.

Zuko finished eating, and went out onto the terrace that came with his hotel suite. He tried meditating for forty minutes, but his thoughts would not rally to his command. He finally began his physical practices. Using every square millimeter at his disposal, he jerked through blocks, strikes, and kicks. When his vision doubled, he began using the wall as counter-point in going through the basic footwork of a fundamental throw.

The only exercise he seemed to really be getting, was in futility. Balance off and depth-perception nonexistent, his limbs didn't even feel like they were really there. Despite the setbacks, he practiced until Jee brought out some kind of sports drink, a fruit array, and another telephone message. The day was warm and he stayed on the terrace to snack. He liked having "tea" out here in the sun. The old, old stories about Amaterasu-sama felt real that way.

Eventually he got around to reading the telephone message. In fact he read it once, twice, still couldn't believe it, and read it again. He looked to Jee and could see a trapped grin somewhere under his beard.

"Did you take this message yourself?"

"I did, sir. His Holiness has an excellent command of English for one so young."


End file.
